


Beep-Beep, I'm a Jeep

by StupidSexySlimeGod



Category: HLVRAI - Fandom
Genre: 1966 Jaguar E-Type, M/M, Not explicit but definitely suggestive, Transformation, Vehicular transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28412928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StupidSexySlimeGod/pseuds/StupidSexySlimeGod
Summary: Bubby turns into a car. That's it. That's the story.
Relationships: Dr. Coomer/Bubby
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	Beep-Beep, I'm a Jeep

**Author's Note:**

> To give you some background, I wrote this in a couple of hours as a joke. Problem is, even when I'm writing a joke fic for a friend, I tend to go all-in. As a result, I'm actually kind of proud of this and now all of you are to be subjected to this as well. 
> 
> Warning: There is actually no jeep. I lied.

He’d said it absentmindedly, a throwaway remark while looking through a magazine of vintage cars that was sitting on the Sector C reception desk. It was the typical kind of talk any good, red-blooded American male would say when faced with the beautiful sleekness of a cherry red 1966 Jaguar E-Type, polished and glimmering in some rich man’s vanity collection. All the gentle curves and and the long, slender shapes had immediately triggered a tingle of joy in Harold, like somebody seeing the work of Michelangelo for the very first time.

And, so taken by the car, he’d absentmindedly stated that it was, quote, “The sexiest car in the world.”

Again, it was a throwaway remark. He said it, placed the magazine down back on the desk, and he and Bubby continued their route to the break room for their routine morning soda. They chit-chatted idly, went their separate ways, and convened together again for lunch later on in the day.

It was during this lunch break that Harold realized that, while he had stopped thinking about the car, Bubby had not. His old friend, between bites of liverwurst sandwich and tiny vienna sausages, would always manage to steer the conversation back to that 1966 Jaguar E-Type, again and again, as if he were possessed. At first, Harold supposed it was just a matter of his good friend being a secret fan of old automobiles--that was pretty common for men their age, after all--but as their banter zigged and zagged, Harold began to feel a  _ different _ tingle was being implicated by his tone.

“What do you think it feels like?” Bubby had asked, twirling his Fanta in the air as he gestured. Harold had cocked his head, confused.

“I would assume it feels like metal, Professor Bubby!”

“First of all, fuck you. I’m a doctor. Second of all, that’s not what I meant.”

Harold blinked, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and then closed his mouth again. His lips formed a tight thin line as his mind sputtered to a halt, trying to think of what secret message had been carefully hidden behind the question. Did he mean what it felt like on the inside, with the luxurious leather seating and the spacious leg room implied by the length of the car’s front? Did he mean how it felt while driven, theorizing about the condition of the suspension in that one particular car?

Somehow, none of these seemed right. When Harold looked back up to his dear friend, Bubby was straightening his glasses and polishing off the last bit of meat juice in his tin of sausages. Slicking back what little was left of his hair, he angled his lean body over the table and practically pressed himself nose-to-nose with him. His breath smelled like pork products, and his eyes burned with a fire that made Harold experience a  _ new _ tingle himself.

“If you want to experience a 1966 Jaguar E-Type, meet me in the garage outside of Sector 8 after dark.”

“Wh-when after dark?” Harold responded, face flushing.

“ _ After. Dark _ . And it won’t be red because red is a basic bitch color, and the insurance is higher on red cars. I--”

“That’s a common misconception, Dr. Bubby! In fact, the color of your car--”

A finger pressed into Harold’s lips and he fell silent.

“Not taking chances, Coomer. It’s going to be powder blue, and it’s not going to be there when you first get there. But I’ll bring the motherfucker, and you can experience the sexiest car in the world hands-on.”

With that, Bubby turned and was gone, failing to pitch his garbage in the trash can as he rounded the corner and slipped into the hall. Harold, still beet red, sat for a few minutes longer as he polished off his Mountain Dew: Code Red and thought about what just happened. His brain reeled, confused and bothered and strangely intrigued, and it was with a deep sigh that he climbed to his feet and set off to return to his work.

He’d go to the garage, he knew that much. Part of it was curiosity. The other feeling driving him, he wasn’t completely able to untangle.

* * *

“After dark” was such a strange and vague time to give, but Harold did the best he could to be there as soon as the sun was no longer visible on the horizon. He put on his favorite khakis and sweater vest, gave himself a little bow tie to make himself presentable, and loaded himself onto the empty tram to take the long trip to the outskirts of the complex. He breezed past the security personnel who didn’t seem all too concerned about where he was headed, and shuffled as fast as he could to the garage where the company vehicles were kept.

And there, already waiting, scowling with his arms crossed, was Bubby.

Judging from the look of him, he’d come directly to the garage after his shift, still disheveled and dressed in his work uniform, his ridiculous tie askew and his lab coat stained with whatever anomalous chemical they had him working with that day. The moment Harold came into his field of view, he threw up his hands in exasperation and let out a sigh that sounded a touch more nervous than usual.

“There you are! I’ve been waiting for fucking hours.”

“You said ‘after dark,’ so I waited for it to get dark,” Harold defended cheerfully. Predictably, Bubby didn’t acknowledge what was said in the slightest, opting instead to grab Harold by the wrist and lead him away to a more open, more secluded corner of the building that, due to a few extinguished bulbs, had what he could only describe as “mood lighting.” Harold’s heart fluttered. He wondered if it was intentional despite knowing for a fact that it was not.

“Well, I’m impatient,” Bubby responded, finally releasing his grip. “I really want to see how you react to this car.”

“Oh?” Harold’s face brightened. “Well, I promise you, Professor Bu--”

“ _ Doctor _ .”

“--Professor Bubby, that I am very excited to see this 1966 Jaguar E-Type you have hidden in Black Mesa! Positively thrilled! Where is it, if I may ask?”

Bubby hesitated, brows knitting together until they seemed to fuse. His grimace grew more pronounced, but the way he fidgeted with his glasses and nervously tapped his foot implied that something was amiss. Harold’s head tilted gently as a puzzled smile spread across his face. While he’d never known Bubby to be an outright liar, being as blunt and unashamed as he was, the man did have a habit of not telling whole truths. 

Perhaps he’d been omitting something, and had omitted himself into a corner. Coomer chuckled at the idea of the car turning out to be a scale model or a hollow husk baking in the desert.

Instead of whipping out a Hot Wheel, however, Bubby cleared his throat and straightened his posture, almost as though he were preparing to give a presentation. He rocked forward on his feet, he rocked backward on his heels, he stumbled when his hip did a thing it wasn’t supposed to, and then he immediately pretended it never happened.

“So, you know how I was grown in a tube?”

Harold blinked. That was not what he expected to come out of Bubby’s mouth.

“Pardon?”

“You know I was grown in a tube, right?”

“Well, uh, yes. I am aware. I used to talk to you in the tube back in the ‘70s! Do you remember disco, Bubby? Oh, I did  _ love _ Earth, Wind, and Fire!”

“Cool.” Bubby cleared his throat once more. “But, you remember the tube thing, right?”

“I just said I did, so yes. I remember.”

“Because I was grown in a tube.”

“I… I know. I--”

“And they wanted to make me into the ultimate lifeform, and I was in a  _ goddamn tube _ .”

“Of course, Professor Bubby! That’s why you can set things on fire with your mind. Like Carrie! Have you ever read  _ Carrie _ ? I wasn’t a fan of the book, to be honest, but the 1976 film was an absolute horror masterpiece! I definitely recommend it if you haven't already--”

“I can turn into a car.”

Harold’s mouth slammed shut and his eyes widened, gaze locking with Bubby who was now peering menacingly over the top of his bifocals. The two stood under the weight of their silence, muffled cricket chirping from outside the garage acting as the comedic soundtrack for their standoff. As much as Harold was usually the type to just accept this sort of thing and move on (Black Mesa  _ was _ a rather bizarre place, after all), the suddenness of the confession had caught him completely off guard.

“You can do what now?” he finally sputtered.

“I can turn into a goddamn car.”

“You can turn into a goddamn car?”

“That’s what I just fucking said, isn’t it? I can turn into a goddamn car.”

“You can turn into a goddamn car.”

Harold’s gaze averted for a moment as the hamster in his head struggled back onto its wheel. It took its good old easy time picking up the pace, and he could feel Bubby’s nervous energy radiating off of him as his own thoughts sluggishly brought themselves up to speed. Once the engine was running at full throttle, Harold’s chipper tone and excited smile returned to his face and, crossing his arms, he puffed out his chest and nodded.

“Alright! I want to see you turn into a goddamn car! Show me the 1966 Jaguar E-Type, please!”

In an instant, Bubby’s posture seemed to loosen. His demeanor seemed to shift. He arched an eyebrow high and then, with a sigh and his best attempt at a nonchalant shrug, he turned his back to Harold.

“Oh, alright. If you insist.”

To be honest, Harold expected a little bit of resistance, a dramatic set-up,  _ something _ to drag it out and make the whole moment more theatrical but, true to Bubby form, he wasn’t exactly one for performance art. He said what he said, did what he did, lacked patience, and was as blunt and sudden with his actions as he was with his words. There was no showmanship, no further explanation,  _ nothing _ . One moment, he was talking, and the next he was…  _ odd _ .

His clothing began to rip, like a scene out of a werewolf movie, but instead of tufts of ragged fur and rows of jagged teeth, Harold beheld his skin hardening like a carapace and blossoming with a delightful powder blue. Bones and bits shifted and expanded, twisted and morphed into new and fascinating shapes that didn’t seem possible, Bubby twisting and writhing like an artful dancer until joints locked into place and he fell to the ground on his hands and knees in a position that was,  _ well,  _ quite salacious.

Harold felt heat rise in his face as he instinctively fanned himself off. He was certainly learning a lot about himself today, wasn’t he?

At least it didn’t seem as though he was in any kind of agony, as the only roar he heard from Bubby was a triumphant “HELL YEAH!” that eventually faded into the revving of a powerful engine once his face completely melted from view, glasses becoming big, round headlights that flashed excitedly and mouth hardening into a grill that was fixed into a vehicular grin. It was jarring to watch, but the joy his good friend seemed to be getting out of it was contagious, and a shy smile shakily formed on Harold’s face.

“O-oh, yes. Absolutely. Hell yeah, Professor Bu--”

A car horn blared at him to cut him off. Harold swallowed hard, realizing quite suddenly how dry his throat had gotten.

“ _ Doctor _ Bubby.”

Slowly, Bubby seemed to solidify, metal creaking into place and tires settling on the concrete. Harold’s eyes practically sparkled at the sight, of the slight curvature of the hood to the elegant forms of his new steel body, and he felt his heart thunder in his chest at the sight of the top slowly, seductively lowering in an obvious invitation. Never in his entire eighty years did he think that he would reach a point in his life that he would experience so many powerful, passionate emotions about a convertible, but there was something about this that sparked a wild, unbridled feeling that hadn’t been tapped since his ex-wife was taken in the divorce.

Of course, there was also a fair amount of shame to come with it. He hesitated, even as Bubby popped the driver’s seat door open and waved it at him excitedly. Though Harold had never once been shy about the fact he batted for both teams, so to speak, there was something that seemed quite awkward over this sudden, teen-boy-with-a-crush moment he was having toward his closest, dearest friend… who was currently a goddamn car.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harold. Get in.”

Despite having no mouth with which to speak, Bubby certainly had no problem with being vocal. Jumping with a start, Harold quickly shuffled over to his friend, the 1966 Jaguar E-Type, so as not to agitate him further.

What he found was that the interior was just as beautiful as the exterior, with fine leather seats that carried with them a delightful “new car” smell that Harold hadn’t experienced in years. Tentatively, he reached out and brushed his hands across the fine, polished steering wheel and brand new upholstery, mesmerized by just how factory-fresh everything seemed. He was interrupted by the sound of a revving engine; it came across less as a sound of irritation than one of shock, like a new driver slamming the gas pedal by mistake.

“Just…  _ get in _ ,” Bubby repeated. Harold didn’t argue.

Bubby was relatively spacious, though it felt weird to think those words in that order. Harold was pleasantly surprised to see that his portly frame was easily accommodated, and marveled at just how much leg room he found. Shakily, he placed his hands on the steering wheel and gently gave it a turn, immediately retracting at a strange hiss that answered him. It wasn’t the radiator that made the noise, that was for damn sure.

“Are you alright, Bubby?” Coomer asked, leaning outside the car and looking into the side view mirror. It shifted to focus on him and he knew, in an instant, he was being watched.

“Never had a driver before. This is interesting.”

“Bad… interesting?”

“Keep touching shit and find out.”

Whether that was a threat or a plea, Harold didn’t know. However, when faced with such a dilemma, he always took words at face value. Cheeks still bright red and hands shaking worse than they had on his wedding night, he gave the steering wheel another turn. Another hiss. This one seemed satisfied.

It was empowering. Taking a deep breath, Harold reached for the stereo and turned the knob. Static buzzed through speakers and Bubby made a strange noise in response, although not an altogether bad one. The engine revved slowly, gently, almost a purr as Harold searched the channels, only stopping when Bubby’s voice belted out, “Wait! Stop! I love this song!”

Dr. Feelgood it was, then. It seemed fitting.

“Oh, d-do you think I could drive you?” Harold asked curiously, sliding his fingers over the ignition. The touch made the entire car shudder and he instinctively tore his hands away, face practically glowing. Between boyish chuckling, he offered an apology, and let his hand come to rest on Bubby’s gear shift.

The engine  _ screamed _ . Coomer yelped, realizing that he had yet again touched something far too sensitive, offering another quick, shaky sorry as he pushed himself against the driver’s side door and--

“Holy shit. Do that again.”

Harold hesitated. He blinked. His brows furrowed.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Bubby. What?”

“Touch. That. Again. That was  _ intense. _ ”

“Intense in what way?” 

“I don’t fucking know! I’m a car! Put me in neutral or something! Just  _ do it again _ !”

“Oh, alright. As long as it’s not hurting you!”

With the most delicate touch he could muster, Harold wrapped his fingers around the gear shift and ever-so-gently put Bubby into neutral. He felt tension release beneath him, but the way Bubby’s mechanical body lurched from the touch quickly made them start rolling backwards. While slow, a quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed they were in danger of drifting directly into the garage doors. Biting his lip nervously, Harold slammed on the brakes and shifted back into park.

“ _ Yes _ , get rough! Do it again!”

“Rough… again?” Harold hesitated, before his tone brightened. “Oh, I get it! This is a sex thing for you!”

“What? No. No, it’s not. Shut up.”

“I do believe it is, Dr. Bubby! It’s alright! I  _ knew _ you were trying to seduce me! Oh, and to think I was feeling  _ guilty _ about this!”

“Goddammit, Harold, I’m a  _ car _ . I don’t--!”

Harold didn’t hesitate. With a newfound vigor and purpose, he shifted the car into neutral again and Bubby’s voice was cut off by the sound of an engine losing its goddamn mind. Grinning eagerly, Harold one again threw them into park and waited for a response.

“... Okay, holy shit. Maybe this is a sex thing. I am making a lot of uncomfortable realizations about myself today.”

“Me, too!” Harold chimed, this time putting Bubby into drive. His foot slammed down briefly on the gas pedal and the two lurched forward, Bubby making a cat-like squall that seemed both terrified and invigorated. Harold cackled wildly and clapped his hands together.

“This is wonderful!”

“This is making me confront some weird shit all of a sudden,” Bubby responded slowly.

“I could do this all night!”

“I’m seventy-two fucking years old. I think I’ll last ten more minutes, tops.”

“Then, let’s make the most of those ten minutes!”

And with that, Coomer threw them into reverse.

Bubby let out a howl as he slammed down the gas pedal, both of them rocketing backwards until the sound of crunching metal filled the night. Like a bullet shot through a piece of paper, Bubby cut a solid hole through the garage doors, tearing off into the desert as security personnel squalled and jumped out of the way. Harold threw back his head in maniacal, overjoyed laughter as Bubby crunched cacti beneath his tires and barreled over scrub, confused (but thankfully unharmed) officers gawking in abject horror.

Then, as Bubby cried out, “Stop! Brakes! Stop!” he finally had the presence of mind to bring them to a screeching halt. Harold’s head nearly banged off the steering wheel, Bubby panted beneath him, the motor sputtered to an exhausted halt, and the car once again found itself in park. 

Grinning and red-faced, Harold smoothed back his hair and fished into his pocket for a cigarette. While he hadn’t smoked in months, he always carried one  _ just in case _ . Lighting it and taking a drag, he flopped back weakly in the driver’s seat as Black Mesa security slowly began to cluster around them.

“That was most enjoyable,” he sighed.

Bubby said nothing.

“I hope you had fun, too.”

Again, Bubby said nothing. He continued to say nothing as one of the officers very firmly ordered Harold out of the car, pinned his arms behind his back, and threw on a pair of cuffs. Funny, seeing as Harold couldn’t remember them ever having handcuffs before.

“Next time, let’s do this inside of a 2008 Neiman Marcus Special Edition Hennessey Venom 700NM!”

Again, silence. But as Harold was quietly led away, he finally heard a sigh heave out of his old, dear, potentially-more-than friend.

“Fine, whatever. See you next week.”


End file.
